


Sharp Edges

by vtn



Category: Cowboy Bebop (Anime)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Pre-Canon, Red Dragon Syndicate, mild sword kink, porn with the barest smidgen of plot, pre-Julia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:25:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21573625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vtn/pseuds/vtn
Summary: For Vicious, lust and bloodlust are two sides of the same coin.
Relationships: Spike Spiegel/Vicious
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Sharp Edges

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gummybearsandscotch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gummybearsandscotch/gifts).

> Happy Yuletide, gummybearsandscotch! I was so delighted to get the chance to rewatch Bebop and write some smutty fic for one of my all-time favorite ships this holiday season. These two and their competitive, dysfunctional, sexually-charged frenemyship are all I need in this life. I hope you enjoy this fic and that you have a wonderful holiday season.
> 
> Many thanks to S. for giving this a quick look over!

It's a rare quiet night that finds Spike Spiegel alone in his apartment. Or what they pass for an apartment in Tharsis. It's more like a pigeonhole, a concrete box in a concrete tower just big enough to nest in, with a kitchenette and a tiny balcony. His landlord is the Red Dragon, of course; he works off his rent. And after a few years of this, he's made the place up nice enough: posters of his favorite jazz musicians on the wall, a beat-up sofa and a TV, a few pillows on the mattress that spans the entire width of his bedroom. He tried a plant but it died, choked by smog. 

Ah, well. It's his.

Tonight he's taking advantage of his free evening by tackling the ever-growing pile of dishes in the kitchenette. He sways to a hot swing record as he scrubs plates, slotting them one by one into the draining rack that fits over his sink. He's gotten into a good rhythm with this, he thinks to himself.

The needle on the record scratches to a stop.

The next moment, Spike's back is pressed against the grease-stained wall, and the blade of a sword rests inches from his nose. It takes all his trained reflexes not to leap away. When his eyes refocus, they meet a pair of eyes exactly on his level, flinty and flashing. Of course.

"Vicious," he says, a low growl under his breath. "What the hell are you doing?"

"You are my mirror image," Vicious says slowly, his eyes meeting Spike's on either side of the blade. "I drew a sword on a man tonight. But I almost made a fatal mistake."

"Is that so?" Neither Spike nor Vicious moves an inch.

"Yes. I hesitated. I wanted to see the look in his eyes when he faced death." Vicious's pale cheek is beaded with sweat, his silver hair pressed against his forehead.

"And what did you see there?" Spike asks, gazing at his own reflection in Vicious's pupils. His heart beats against the inside of his chest.

"Nothing."

"Maybe death is like nothing." He keeps holding Vicious' gaze. He thinks he sees it in Vicious eyes--that bloodlust that quickly turns to lust in Spike's presence. For Vicious, lust and bloodlust are two sides of the same coin.

"It did not satisfy me. Since you are my mirror image, I thought maybe I would recognize it better in your eyes," says Vicious. 

"And did you?" Spike presses. Vicious only smiles, his mouth a knife-slit in his face. Spike finally draws in a breath. Then slowly, he reaches out a finger, meaning to touch the blade.

"Don't", Vicious barks.

"Why? Every sword has a dull edge." 

Vicious's eyes glint. "Not with me."

Spike strokes his fingers along the flat side of the sword instead, locking eyes with Vicious. "Maybe I'm going to get cut," he says, letting a note of teasing creep into his voice. 

"Do you want that?" Vicious's voice is low, husky. It makes Spike dizzy. He slides his hand down, carefully, to the hilt of the sword, avoiding the edge, hoping Vicious doesn't miss the suggestion of the gesture. "Tell me what you want, Spike Spiegel." His breath on Spike's neck is hot steel, his hunger almost tangible.

Then the meaning of all this catches up to him. Within seconds, he's slammed Vicious against the counter that separates the kitchen from the living room. The sword clatters to the floor. "I want to know why you killed a man without me. Who was he?" Spike sees Vicious's chest rise with a breath, his composure briefly broken. He presses his knee between Vicious's thighs, parting them slightly, hoping to crack open Vicious's secrets the same way.

"I cannot tell you that."

Spike slaps Vicious's face. It connects with a satisfying crack. Then Vicious bites his hand as he tries to pull away, enough to draw blood. Spike smiles.

"I see the syndicate has finally chosen its favorite son," he says, looking at the color briefly blooming on Vicious's cheek, the same as the red on his hand. 

"Does it make you jealous?" The hungry look gets back into Vicious's eyes. "Does it make you want to kill me?"

Spike sighs and draws back. Vicious stoops to the floor and reclaims his sword, then sheathes it. "They're going to try to pit us against each other, aren't they?" 

"They will." Vicious finally looks away from Spike now, and Spike thinks he almost detects a note of bitterness in his voice. "They already have. The question is, what will you do about that, Spike Spiegel?"

Instead of answering, Spike says, more softly now, "Who was he?"

Vicious still doesn't look at him. "His name was Howard Jin. He gained the trust of the Van, but planned to steal from the syndicate and leave Mars. However, his plot was discovered, and I was sent to kill him before he could make the theft." 

So, Vicious can stab him in the gut without using his sword at all. A special assassination mission from the Van. Foreknowledge of an attempted coup. And the favor that will surely come from completing the mission successfully.

Vicious turns toward Spike now, and Spike can hear Vicious's voice echo in his mind: _Does it make you want to kill me?_ He feels the desire in Vicious's eyes--for violence or for sex, both of them knowing either will serve to satisfy him--and he heats up under that gaze. They stand a moment longer in the kitchenette, not touching. 

All at once their mouths press together, Vicious grabbing Spike's chin in his hand and Spike's hand fisting in Vicious's hair. He presses his tongue into Vicious's mouth and is met only by the press of Vicious's tongue back against his. He pulls at the roots of Vicious's hair, soliciting a moan from Vicious. 

They pull apart, gasping for breath, then Vicious bites him again, on the neck this time, teeth sinking in. "Will you turn me into a vampire, too, then?" Spike jokes. 

Vicious's mouth is right on his ear, then, whispering, "It's true I want your blood." Spike raises his hand and Vicious licks at that spot he bit earlier, his teeth flashing in a smile. At the slide of Vicious's tongue along his skin, Spike's need grows urgent. He turns, starting to back Vicious out of the kitchenette and into the living room. 

"Are we dancing, then?" Vicious asks. "If we're dancing, we should have music." He reaches behind Spike, lifting the needle and replacing it at the outer edge of the record. 

The trumpets wail as Vicious lets Spike back him out around the counter. His heart swells: he's the only person Vicious will let lead him anywhere. They reach the sofa and Vicious says, "well. Shall we dance?"

Vicious lounges across the cushions, arranging his body into a sprawl, and takes Spike's wrist, and drags Spike down, ever down, down to him.

Their mouths crash again. Spike replaces his knee between Vicious's legs. He feels the press of Vicious's sword hilt against his hip. Vicious's hands move under his shirt, pinching and twisting his nipples. He yelps, muffled inside Vicious's mouth. Vicious nips his tongue.

So it's true. Vicious really doesn't have any dull edges.

Now Vicious has Spike's shirt off, twisting it over his head, and it's only fair play that he spreads open Vicious's coat (he's still wearing it even in the heat of the tiny apartment), unknots Vicious's tie. 

"Did you dress up for me, or for Howard Jin?" Spike teases him, slipping a finger under Vicious's collar and loosening it, sliding the button from its hole. He nudges his knee against Vicious's groin, but Vicious, if he reacts, hides it well.

"For him," he whispers back. 

"Good," Spike says. He starts to unbutton the shirt. Vicious's neck is paper-white. "Formal wear doesn't suit you anyway."

He gets down to the bottom button, spreads Vicious's shirt open as he nudges Vicious's groin one more time. Now he can feel Vicious's cock against his knee, hard as the hilt of his sword, straining against those tight trousers. He rubs his thumb over the barest trace of hair at Vicious's waistband, and that white skin flushes red under his touch.

Vicious leans up to kiss him again, pressing hard against his mouth. 

"Go ahead," Spike says when they part. "Ask me how I want you." His mind is already teeming with ideas.

"No," says Vicious, and that knife-slash smile flashes again. "_I_ want." He moves like a shadow, like he must have done to get into Spike's apartment (Spike should have never given him the key, but he gave it to him, gives Vicious everything, constantly) and he's on top of Spike now, bearing down on him, his limbs angular. And now the hard object pressing against Spike's leg is a sword, which Vicious has drawn in that same smooth motion, the cruel steel cold against Spike's bare torso. "It's there," he says, and presses down on the sword, not enough to break the skin but enough to sting. "Right there."

"What is?" Spike says, his blood rushing to his ears and to his groin all at once. 

"The thing in your eyes that I was looking for." 

Vicious's kiss now is like he's devouring Spike whole.

"That's not death," Spike says. He pushes the sword to the tile floor, where it makes a metallic clang.

"Then what is it?" Vicious demands, his voice growing wild. "What?"

Spike only answers by taking Vicious's face in both his hands and kissing him again, softly but desperately, the strands of Vicious's hair soft against his fingers. Then at once their hands are at each other's waists, Vicious yanking down Spike's jeans as Spike unbuttons Vicious's trousers. 

"You want me," Vicious says. He rubs the heel of his hand over the crotch of Spike's underwear, and Spike's breath comes out in a shudder. "But you are mine." Spike is spellbound, as the fluid rising to the tip of his cock dampens the fabric under Vicious's touch. "You say it, now," he intones, with another rough motion of his hand. "Tell me you are mine."

Spike smiles and shakes his head. 

"Say it," Vicious breathes close to his neck. 

Spike gestures with his index finger: _my lips are sealed_.

Vicious drags down Spike's underwear, now, and his hand snakes behind Spike, between his legs, pushing his inner thighs apart. His fingers pinch at the sensitive skin there, and Spike bites his lip. 

"No one can have you but me," Vicious says, his voice low. Now he reaches back up between their bodies, pulling his own erection from his trousers. He's as hard as Spike has ever seen him. He guides his cock between Spike's legs, pressing the tip of it against Spike's entrance.

Spike almost does say what Vicious wants him to, then: almost says he belongs to Vicious and will forever. Nothing feels more right than the way their bodies fit together, equal and opposite. He hooks a leg around Vicious's trim waist and lets Vicious enter him, as ever without preparation because Vicious is too insatiable.

But he doesn't say it. He leans back, closes his eyes, his cock jumping from where it is pressed between their bare stomachs at the feeling of Vicious filling him. Closes his eyes, and says nothing. The record changes tracks, the drummer counting in the next song, and Vicious starts his rhythm, thrusting into Spike, pushing deep.

"I killed a man in cold blood," Vicious says, his face buried in Spike's neck. "I smelled his blood as it spilled." He feels Vicious's erection react, twitching inside him, as Vicious--undoubtedly--imagines the moment of the kill again.

Spike reaches back to palm Vicious's balls, feeling their weight and fullness against his hand. Vicious groans and the rhythm of his movements becomes erratic. Spike shifts his thigh against Vicious's waist, trying to get friction against the head of his cock. 

"Are you going to come inside me?" he breathes, feeling Vicious's speeding pulse against his chest. "I always wondered why you never come inside me." He wants it already, wants the hot rush of Vicious's seed, wants Vicious to fully claim him.

Vicious's eyes go wide, but his voice is steady: "I won't give any part of myself away to you."

"That's too bad," says Spike, teasing again. He hooks his leg tighter around Vicious's body, then moves his other leg up in parallel, squeezing Vicious' waist between his thighs. "Because I've got you now." 

A groan tears from Vicious's throat. He squirms, but Spike is right--he can't easily get out of this position. Spike looks up at the ceiling, at the glow of the city lights reflected there. And then he runs his fingers one more time over Vicious's balls, sweeping the pad of his thumb over Vicious's entrance. 

"You bastard," Vicious breathes, contempt in his voice, and there it is, the wet heat inside Spike as Vicious's orgasm hits him. Spike marvels even then at Vicious's control. Even as he's coming, he doesn't gasp or arch his back. But he pushes further into Spike, riding out the last bursts of his climax. "You _bastard_." 

Spent, Vicious pushes Spike off the couch and onto the floor. Spike's head connects with the tile, not hard enough to bruise but hard enough to make his ears ring. 

Vicious picks up his sword one last time from the floor, then spits on Spike. He gathers his coat around his face and rushes to the door, moving like a shadow again, faster than Spike can chase him.

The record stops.

Spike grins. He's still hard, lying on the floor, Vicious's seed slick between his thighs. He grips his erection in his hand and easily jerks himself to climax, thinking about the white of Vicious's skin, and the whites of his eyes, and the sharp edge of his sword.

\---

In fact, he's so overcome, so dazed as he lies there that he misses the call.

But he listens to the message immediately after, wrapped in a towel. "Spike Spiegel," says the voice, "I have a special mission for you. However, you must not tell Vicious under any circumstances."

Spike laughs, and laughs, and when he's done laughing he stumbles into the kitchenette and moves the needle on the record back to the outer groove. There are still dishes to wash, and the night is quiet again, and there's time enough for an encore.


End file.
